investments.”
“Yes. His brother did not go into the detail, but that is true. He suspects foul play, and he has revealed an enticing detail the police did not discover. His brother had a female visitor the afternoon he died.”
“Why were the police not told?”
“Most of the servants had been given the afternoon off, and the elderly butler who had let her in feared a scandal. Lord Harrington is convinced she murdered his brother. He chooses to overlook the more obvious explanation.”
“You mean...?”
Holmes nodded, then rose and walked impatiently to the bow window. “Lady Harrington was out of town visiting her sister. I know you told me the afternoon is not reserved for fine gentlemen and harlots, but it does seem a preferred time.”
“But why would Harrington have killed himself?”
“How should I know!” Holmes exclaimed. “Perhaps it was self-loathing.” He put his fingertips against his forehead, and his voice quieted. “It all grows so... wearisome. The man had everything—wealth, a title, good breeding, education—and yet he could rise no higher than... a mere animal. Is man’s nature truly so base?”
I shook my head. “No. Perhaps you are also thinking of Donald Wheelwright.”
Holmes turned to me, angry. “Perhaps I am.”
“All men are not like him or Harrington.”
Holmes glanced out the window. “The carriage is here, Henry, a fancy four-wheeler. We travel in style today.” He reached for his top hat and stick.
During the ride we were both rather pensive. I knew I could never forgive myself if I were unfaithful to Michelle. I might still have longings toward other women, but it was one thing to have such longings, another to act upon them. All the same, despite the great facade of moral rectitude, Holmes was right—adultery was all too common amongst upper-class men.
“Have you discovered anything yet about the Wheelwright case?” I asked.
“Only that which is of general knowledge. Violet Montague married Donald Wheelwright eight years ago this November. She was twenty-two years of age, he some six years older. She was the daughter of a widowed Oxford don, Alexander Montague, an eminent naturalist whose specialty was entomology. He had died, unexpectedly, a year before the marriage at the peak of his career. His obituary in The Times mentioned his intellectual brilliance, his eccentric charm and his musical abilities.”
I nodded. “That explains much of Violet’s character.”
“Donald Wheelwright is the son of the Donald Wheelwright, founder of Wheelwright’s Potted Meats. The elder Wheelwright was born a virtual pauper. He destroyed most of his competitors in the early seventies, and by 1882 he obtained an exclusive contract to supply the British Navy with canned meats. He is now one of the wealthiest men in England, and Donald junior is his only son and heir. He has a daughter, Julia, who is married to a marquess.”
I pulled at the end of my mustache. “I am surprised Donald was spared a similar fate.”
“That was considered. Donald was seen with a duke’s daughter, but then he married Violet quite suddenly. The papers mentioned an extended honeymoon on the continent, but it was cut short when Violet fell ill in Venice.”
“The old man could not have approved. He must have been furious.”
Holmes nodded. “No doubt—although he appears to have been reconciled with his son and daughter-in-law. The couple has dwelt in the same townhouse for six years, and five years ago the Wheelwrights, father and son, purchased an enormous country estate in Norfolk near Sandringham. They have sunk a small fortune into refurbishing the dilapidated manor house.”
I smiled. “Country squires.”
“Exactly. Young Wheelwright is second in command at the potted meat business, but the old man rules with a hand of iron. His son keeps brief office hours and is, as we know, often free in the afternoon. He does not seem particularly interested in the family business,
“Yes. His brother did not go into the detail, but that is true. He suspects foul play, and he has revealed an enticing detail the police did not discover. His brother had a female visitor the afternoon he died.”
“Why were the police not told?”
“Most of the servants had been given the afternoon off, and the elderly butler who had let her in feared a scandal. Lord Harrington is convinced she murdered his brother. He chooses to overlook the more obvious explanation.”
“You mean...?”
Holmes nodded, then rose and walked impatiently to the bow window. “Lady Harrington was out of town visiting her sister. I know you told me the afternoon is not reserved for fine gentlemen and harlots, but it does seem a preferred time.”
“But why would Harrington have killed himself?”
“How should I know!” Holmes exclaimed. “Perhaps it was self-loathing.” He put his fingertips against his forehead, and his voice quieted. “It all grows so... wearisome. The man had everything—wealth, a title, good breeding, education—and yet he could rise no higher than... a mere animal. Is man’s nature truly so base?”
I shook my head. “No. Perhaps you are also thinking of Donald Wheelwright.”
Holmes turned to me, angry. “Perhaps I am.”
“All men are not like him or Harrington.”
Holmes glanced out the window. “The carriage is here, Henry, a fancy four-wheeler. We travel in style today.” He reached for his top hat and stick.
During the ride we were both rather pensive. I knew I could never forgive myself if I were unfaithful to Michelle. I might still have longings toward other women, but it was one thing to have such longings, another to act upon them. All the same, despite the great facade of moral rectitude, Holmes was right—adultery was all too common amongst upper-class men.
“Have you discovered anything yet about the Wheelwright case?” I asked.
“Only that which is of general knowledge. Violet Montague married Donald Wheelwright eight years ago this November. She was twenty-two years of age, he some six years older. She was the daughter of a widowed Oxford don, Alexander Montague, an eminent naturalist whose specialty was entomology. He had died, unexpectedly, a year before the marriage at the peak of his career. His obituary in The Times mentioned his intellectual brilliance, his eccentric charm and his musical abilities.”
I nodded. “That explains much of Violet’s character.”
“Donald Wheelwright is the son of the Donald Wheelwright, founder of Wheelwright’s Potted Meats. The elder Wheelwright was born a virtual pauper. He destroyed most of his competitors in the early seventies, and by 1882 he obtained an exclusive contract to supply the British Navy with canned meats. He is now one of the wealthiest men in England, and Donald junior is his only son and heir. He has a daughter, Julia, who is married to a marquess.”
I pulled at the end of my mustache. “I am surprised Donald was spared a similar fate.”
“That was considered. Donald was seen with a duke’s daughter, but then he married Violet quite suddenly. The papers mentioned an extended honeymoon on the continent, but it was cut short when Violet fell ill in Venice.”
“The old man could not have approved. He must have been furious.”
Holmes nodded. “No doubt—although he appears to have been reconciled with his son and daughter-in-law. The couple has dwelt in the same townhouse for six years, and five years ago the Wheelwrights, father and son, purchased an enormous country estate in Norfolk near Sandringham. They have sunk a small fortune into refurbishing the dilapidated manor house.”
I smiled. “Country squires.”
“Exactly. Young Wheelwright is second in command at the potted meat business, but the old man rules with a hand of iron. His son keeps brief office hours and is, as we know, often free in the afternoon. He does not seem particularly interested in the family business,
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